Just a little rambling on what it's like to be one of the most ostracized and marginalized groups in human history. You'll see tons of people advocating for autistic people, for bipolar and depressed people, but sociopaths/ASPD people never get any sympathy or even any support, they're condemned for who they are.

So this is the story of a young man diagnosed with it, who shall remain nameless, and his life in his own words, because I would like him to remind you that sociopaths are humans, not monsters, not some demons in the dark, that they have emotions, even if different, and they think differently.

Wow, I actually wrote something that's not fanfiction, so check it out, I guess. Sorry about the shifting tenses, I was experimenting.

I do not condone violence committed by some of these individuals, let it be said that the majority of ASPD people do not commit murder and live regular lives.

(I'm not a sociopath myself, but autistic. Still, I understand the stigma of being judged.)

Sociopath


The doctor paused for a second, before turning back to look at the young boy playing by himself in the corner, drawing inappropriate images on the piece of paper. He glanced back at the worried and disapproving looks on the parents' faces. How could he break the news to them about their son?

Such an intelligent and charming young boy had-had...but he must tell them.

Swallowing hard, he opened his mouth to speak. "Mr. and Mrs. Smith...I'm afraid your son has Antisocial Personality Disorder. I'm very sorry."

The young boy blinked, looking up at the doctor, before looking at his parents in confusion, wondering why his mother was leaking fluid from her eyes, and did not comprehend why she was hugging him when he didn't even want a hug at this moment.

All he knew was that something was happening and his parents were mad. Lots of things happened when his parents were mad.

His father especially looked enraged.

His father screams at him for over two long hours about how he will not "have a psycho" in the house, whatever that is, and tells him he'll either act like a normal boy or else he'll be gone and out of the house.

He doesn't understand. Why would he want to do that to him?

"What did I do? I didn't do anything wrong yet." He says.

But his father strikes him hard across the face. He has learned very fast to never question anything his father says. But if his father taught him one thing, it's that violence always works. Being weak is never the answer.

To him, the world he sees around him is confusing (so, so confusing) and worse, people get angry at him for questioning it or worse, asking questions. Why do people cry? Why are people getting so upset when they're happy? Why do people hit others?

"Why are you crying?" He asks his classmate, after he insulted her.

He gets a detention, but even so, it doesn't sink in.

As far as he knows, the world only consists of him, a dark, empty world-there are other people out there, but no matter how hard he tries to reach them, that world rejects him.

He is put into detention again, this time for refusing to listen to what the teacher was saying and for stealing things from another student's desk. So he tries to punch the teacher, thinking of his father and how "might makes right," as he'd always told his son.

Mr. Smith is not pleased to learn his son is in detention again. That makes for another night of beatings. Somehow, it seems to make his son worse instead of better. The more he is treated cruelly, the crueler he becomes.

He is accused of harassing girls by following them around, sometimes not even being aware of his actions. He's seen other men do this as well, and females tend to listen to what he says more than the other guys do. He's not sure why.

All he knows is that for some reason, no matter what he says, people will believe it. It's a strange feeling-to feel a sudden sense of...what is this called? Satisfaction? Happiness?

He's not sure. He's never remembered feeling happy on his birthday, but he did feel happy that people were paying him attention and giving him gifts. When people don't give him anything, he feels that "warmth" slip away and it's replaced with that dull, dull boredom.

He knows boredom. Why can't he stay interested in anything? He drops college class after college class because nothing engages him for very long. He can't stand to attend the lectures because he hates being told what to do. So he doesn't go.

He goes to some, but only if he likes it and thinks there's anything to be gained from it. Eventually, his parents hear of his poor grades and they yell at him, telling him how he's dishonored their family name and how he's nothing but a disgrace.

He just stands there, completely puzzled as to why they're angry. He did as they asked, right?

"What's wrong with failing?" He says, wondering why they're blaming him.

He didn't do anything wrong, did he?

He wasn't wrong when he killed a rabbit, was he?

He wasn't wrong when he pushed that bully away from that kid, was he?

Did it matter if he was selfish?

The things he'd noticed about people while being a sociopath were...that people were just as hypocritical as they accused him of being. They'd care about certain sides in political or religious debates, and then call for the other side to die, for one thing. They'd donate to charities so they could make themselves look good.

They'd dress up nice so they'd look like good people, and then they'd whisper lies about each other. Lying was what society did, he concluded, and to fit in-to even stand a chance of being a normal person-not be one of those people on TV-he'd have to act. He'd have to lie.

He'd have to be someone else.

So he starts pretending and hiding his true self, and to his surprise, he gets people interested in him. People seem to really like him, which amazes him, so he figures if he keeps on pretending, maybe he'll get somewhere.

He still steals from time to time. But he is trying to look for work, because appearance is everything, and good people are employed, right? What even is good and evil, anyway? He figures it's all nonsense and that people should do what they want.

He smiles and dates woman after woman, searching for the right one that meets his needs.

He is disappointed again when he finds that they eventually want to see the real him, and then they don't like what they see. When he tries to explain, they dismiss him as being full of shit and leave.

But isn't that what people do? Don't they just pretend and earn friends that way?

What makes him so different?

He puts this question to his mother, who hesitates, chewing on her lip before she replies, "Well, you never feel sorry for anything you do, you never feel bad for anyone, and you're not guilty. So yeah, I don't think you're worthy of being called my son. A human doesn't act that way."

He is angered by her words. How dare she insult him.

But he is also curious. What does guilt mean? What does feeling sorry mean?

To his surprise, he finds that books contain some answers but not all, as his mind easily wanders, so he cannot continue reading book after book. But he has a mental idea of what they mean, even if he cannot make it onto paper.

"A car accident happened!" His colleagues cry.

He barely blinks. They happen every day. Why is he supposed to care when they all sound virtually the same? Why cry over total strangers?

He doesn't understand a lot of what he soon learns are "empaths'" society.

He doesn't understand why people pretend to be sad at funerals. He doesn't understand why people don't just tell others directly what they think. He doesn't understand why people cry or why people get mad when he doesn't apologize.

He's tried to explain before to one of his previous girlfriends that he can't feel sorry, which led her to push him away before leaving.

He swears he's a good person, he swears he is. He tries to refrain from stealing, he just does it too much, he lies too much. In his spare time, he often goes outside and collects insects and then kills them, slowly, one by one.

He's taken roadkill and gutted it before as well but he has only occasionally gone after a live animal. He's not interested enough in that sort of thing. He's not interested in anything.

He quits his job. He takes another one.

He quits that one.

Nothing is ever permanent.

The only thing he knows is that he exists, and he is always bored and never this "happy" state people talk of. Why do people like him exist?

Who can he even talk to about such things? Surely not his parents, they'd disowned him for being a "horrible son". Not like he cared. He didn't care if they were or weren't going to stay in touch with him.

What he did care about, was having someone else around to use, to understand, to unravel. It was his way of seeking knowledge in a world that ignored him at best, vilified him at worst, and just flat-out refused to understand.

Because, without that, he was just alone in his thoughts. Alone and bored.

Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored.


He does eventually settle down with a wife and children. He can't say he's satisfied but it makes him feel something to have children he can now have with him. He finds that his parenting style isn't exactly the same as his wife's...so she takes him to this thing called anger management.

He goes, because he doesn't want her to leave him, nor does he want the kids to leave. He doesn't want to be alone again, after all.

Things settle into a boring daily routine, but he still feels like there is a divide between him and normal people. Even his wife knows it.

Some days she asks him why he is so somber often.

He doesn't answer her.

She asks again.

He starts kissing her to avoid answering that question.

Anything to fill the void in his cracked heart.

He tries to make things better.

But he often makes things worse.

He tries, isn't that enough?

His wife cries and shouts, tells him she's getting a divorce, and then he never sees his children again.

He lives alone now, for the rest of his life, just being a quiet nobody who doesn't matter, the worst feeling in the world. Now the boredom is all around him, the boredom is everywhere, echoing in his head, in his mind, in his brain.

You're not human after all.

His mother's voice.

"I don't need you!"

His father's voice.

He stands up, walks over to the window, stares out it, before he sits down in a chair and taking his computer out, begins to write. The only thing that will make him feel better these days is to write out his fantasies, no matter how gory or graphic.

It's his only friend in a cruel world that doesn't, won't, can't and will never understand him.

He lives to a ripe old age, with grandchildren.

He doesn't pay much attention to them.

He doesn't give a crap anymore about anything.

No one ever cared about him, why should he care about them?

But he keeps his role going and his mask firmly pressed on.

He eventually dies.

A funeral is held.

His grandchildren mourn.


"Didn't you know? Grandpa was a sociopath." The boy sitting at the table tells the girl next to him, who drops her drink.

"What? Aren't they like, serial killers or something?"

"Don't be stupid, Grandpa wasn't a socio-whatever!" The youngest says before walking away. She refuses to think so.

The youngest granddaughter keeps visiting her grandfather's grave and placing flowers on it until she dies. She is diagnosed as having Antisocial Personality Disorder herself and is estranged from the rest of her family.

"How did you deal with a world that didn't care about you?" She asks the gravestone, which does not answer, being a plain, gray slab that can only hide answers instead of giving them.

She sighed before sitting down. "Not like you give a damn now, cuz you're dead and all. How did you deal with all the crap people give you?"

Silence is the answer.

She stands back up.

"Whatever. Thanks." She says flippantly before getting into her car and driving off, leaving behind the gray slab, with a single flower placed there for him.

She was the only one who visited him for all those years.

The rest of them just ignored him.

But she understood, for she, too was a sociopath.

She understood that the loneliness they endured was eternal.

She understood that the world would not care if they lived or died, that they were condemned at birth to be the way they were.

Still, they had always been there throughout human history, watching events unfold and perhaps partaking, perhaps not. But they were there. They existed as history and major battles were undertaken, perhaps soldiers on either side of the American battlefield, perhaps neutrals, still they watched.

They were soldiers during both World Wars, they were there for many historical events, great and small. They were around when a bearded man started lecturing others on how to live and was killed, and perhaps watched before turning away.

Perhaps, if there was one thing he wanted to be remembered most by, it was his writing, and the granddaughter sent one of his writings to a library, which had been posted up for all to see, bearing this message on it.

"Inhuman"

He cries like they do (out of loneliness), he bleeds like they do, he sees, hears, smells, tastes and touches as they do. He desires as they do, gets jealous, afraid, angry, bored, sad, happy, lonely as they do. He works as they do, has lovers as they do, has friends as they do, has hobbies as they do, enjoys Tv, reading as they do, uses the Internet as they do. He knows he's supposed to say sorry when he did something wrong.

He desires to protect what he has as they do.

He possesses others but he has an urge to protect them as they do.

His love is possessive but as passionate as everyone else's. He lies as we do. He is indifferent to pain as we are. He does not help as we do not in situations where we should. He sits in your classroom, doing schoolwork as everyone else does. He works beside everyone.

He eats, sleeps dreams, takes medicine and drinks as we do, smokes, drinks and gambles as we do. He is, always has been and always will be there, among us humans, watching but not part of us. Longing to be but not desiring to be among us. He lives, breathes, dies as we do. He is not immortal, but a mere mortal, like us. He drives a car as we do, has hopes and dreams as we do.

He has the same DNA as we do, the same bones and organs as we do. Yet he is somehow inhuman. He is one of us. He has always been there with humans. He is just willing to expose his flaws to the world. Proud of his vices. Proof that humans aren't perfect.

He is a sociopath. We exist, and we are always here, as we always will be, watching over all of them, watching for when they will be ready to accept us into their circle of society as one of them. We've always been longing to be with them, but they rejected us, painted us as murderers, serial killers, crazy freaks, made us villains in every movie ever, and so on and so forth.

So he encloses this poem with a message to all those who read this: we are human. Our lives matter. Do not forget us. We exist and deserve to be remembered and respected.

The poem stays up for a long time before it is eventually taken down and thrown away, regarded as nothing but trash.

"Bunch of freaks, what do they want recognition for?" An employee working there muttered.

A girl walks over to the trash can, picks up the note and reads over it, before taking it with her.

The note has never been seen again or since, but it is presumed that the sociopaths of the world have it in their possession and look it over, full of approval, happy that someone acknowledges them.